


When the Music Goes Around

by pbandfluff



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, First Kiss, Swing Dancing, alcohol mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 19:17:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3261326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pbandfluff/pseuds/pbandfluff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You much of a dancer, Peg?”</i>
</p>
<p>Angie laments a lack of dancing, Peggy tries to rectify that. Angie realizes she might have walked into something bigger than Lindy Hop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Music Goes Around

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not so vain as to take all the credit for this idea, seeing as a number of people on tumblr suggested this plot, but I'm also not so shy as to deny that drawing Angie and Peggy swing dancing didn't coalesce this into something more tangible than a headcanon.
> 
> Title is from the lyrics to "Sing, Sing, Sing", better known in its orchestral format performed by Benny Goodman. (Yes, that's what comes on the radio.)

“You much of a dancer, Peg?”

Angie's about as close to passed-out, drunk-dead tired as anyone can get, and she's not entirely convinced her feet haven't fallen off (she's sure it would hurt less than they do now, _yowsa_ ), but it's 8:17 for chrissake and English might be one kind of gal, but Angie Martinelli is no _grandma_.

The converse of that is she's about as passed-out, drunk-dead _bored_ as anyone can get from the quiet in the room, and while Peggy is content to scratch away at her writing desk, the quiet _tick-tock ca-lang ca-lang_ symphony of both Peggy's clock and ceiling fan is about to make Angie scream.

Angie hears the scrawl of pen on paper stop, and as she whirls her head in a dizzying circle, following the blades of the fan with her eyes, she can just see Peggy straighten and glance at her over her shoulder from her corner of the room.

“I've been known to indulge when the music is slow,” Peggy replies primly, returning to her work without hesitation and Angie rolls herself onto her stomach with a groan of frustration. This won't do at all.

“Naaaaah, Pegs, _dancing_ ,” she whines into Peggy's quilt, stretching her arms over her head only to give up and flop ungainly over the whole of Peggy's bed. “Lindy Hop, East Coast Swing, real dancing before the war shut us down.”

Angie suffers through a few stuffy breaths through the quilt before turning her head to the side, too tired to move the curls that teeter precariously on the crest of her cheekbone before cascading down over her face. On the other side of the room Angie can hear the quiet, stunted breaths that mean Peggy is trying not to laugh, and under her curtain of hair she smiles at the carefree moment before regret settles in as curls stick to her teeth and lips.

“Oh, Angie,” Peggy sighs as Angie splutters out air to try and clear the strands that are now trying to migrate up her nose, and she hauls herself up just for the chance to pull her hair back while her vision spins.

This time Peggy doesn't even try to hide her laughter, and while Angie attempts at serious and offended, Peggy's laugh _always_ makes her smile; with the source standing in front of her, red lips curved up like the most inviting bow, it's impossible to force her smile into a frown or the warmth in her chest back to a mere flutter.

“So,” she grins, piecing together the remnants of their original conversation before she goes off and does something stupid like stare at those damn red lips for too long, “dancing, English: yes or no?”

Peggy hums noncommittally, her mouth twitching at the sides into a smirk, like she knows something Angie doesn't, and _oh_ , Angie's usually a sucker for that smirk but part of her wants to march up to it and declare victory because Peggy Carter might know more than Angie ever will, but Angie's got her own secrets that would make that smirk blush.

“What about you?” Peggy deflects, adjusting some of her pin curls with a tilt and arch of her neck that makes Angie's teeth itch. “Surely it's a help for auditions.”

Angie shrugs, dropping her hands into her lap. “I'm not cookin' with helium, sure, but I can cut a rug when I have to.”

It's not a total lie. She's not the best dancer in Midtown, by a _long_ shot, but the Lower East Side? Pshhhhhhhh. Hands down.

“Well, I'm adequate at best,” Peggy finally answers, crossing the room to sit next to Angie on the bed, “and I was always terrible with being tossed in the air.”

“That's the best part!” Angie insists brightly, remembering the rush of being flipped over a 6'2” shoulder and knowing she would land perfectly.

Peggy laughs lightly, patting Angie's knee. “Then we'll have to find you a dance hall; there has to be at least one still open in the city.”

 

 

Thunder clouds pull in and settle to match the stormy nostalgia that runs through Angie as she lays in her own bed later that night, thinking back on the endless nights spent dancing with schoolyard friends. By the morning the city is hazy grey and murky blues along the skyline, the rain a trickle that mists over everything with a cloying stickiness that even the cold of indoors can't quite dispel.

Curiosity comes to Angie as she dresses for the day, and she spends a few minutes listening to the sloshy, wet sounds of outdoors through her open window, trying to imagine if Peggy – a younger Peggy, back when England was a place to call home – ever took the time to listen to the rain.

She rolls her eyes when she realizes the trap she's fallen into, and a sigh flutters out in the silence of the room. Here she goes again.

It's embarrassing to admit that she thinks about Peggy as much as she does, but it's so easy to do when the woman is so damn nice but so damn confusing. Angie can't tell when she's gonna run hot or cold, if she's gonna talk or slink away into the shadows, and Angie's never been the type to go for anyone who plays coy and mysterious as much as Peggy does, but damn if Angie's not a goner.

It's a feeling she knows well, but one that keeps her in knots.

“Any kind of flower in the word,” she mutters bitterly as she shoulders the window closed, “and I had to go pick _violets_.”

 

The weather only gets worse as the day drags on, and the Automat fills up with peevish and soggy men as a result. More than once Angie quickly covers refills while one of the other girls marches to the back closet to scream into a towel; it's not pretty, but it gets them through another hour.

Angie loses herself (or maybe gets lost) in keeping up with refills and orders and remembering it's supposed to be a smile, not a grimace, but when Peggy walks through the door that evening with a soft smile and warm spark in her eyes in greeting, the press of being on-call for someone's needs drains out of her and all she wants is to curl up in the other woman's arms and just be held.

“Long day,” Peggy murmurs in sympathy as she slides onto a seat at the counter, less of a question and more of a statement, and it's a precarious moment for Angie's frayed nerves because no one seems to notice her exhaustion, no one questions her bubbly mood, no one can take the time to pay attention except for Peggy, who seems to read her like she'd written the book, and now the thought of falling into her arms is looking better and better.

“You ever get tired of the rain, English?”

Peggy looks up, startled and wide-eyed at her sudden question, and Angie leans on the counter to stare questioningly at the other woman, surprised slightly at her own words.

“It's a constant in life, I suppose,” Peggy replies quietly, lips pursing in thought for a moment before smoothing out into a small smile. “But I've never tired of rainy days for reading.”

Angie smiles, because _god_ , yeah, what a thought – Peggy curled up in a wingback chair in front of a fireplace, book on her knee, hair slightly frizzed and curls loosed by the damp, those strong legs peeking out from under the length of her dress, mouth quirked up in concentration…

The most pathetically _longing_ sigh escapes from Angie unbidden, and she blushes straight down to her toes when she realizes the sound she's just made.

Peggy, bless her upstanding British heart, laughs lightly and smiles at Angie the way one might an enthusiastic but entirely dopey puppy.

“A book does sound good right about now, doesn't it?” Peggy continues, and Angie is damn glad she's an actress because it's the only way she keeps her face from giving her away.

“Yeah, Pegs,” she says brightly, turning to go get Peggy's normal order. “A _book_ is what sounds good right now,” she mutters sarcastically when her back is to Peggy, and if she's a bit more jittery with the cutlery than usual, Peggy doesn't comment on it.

Peggy takes a long moment to savor her first, warm sip of tea (Angie does not watch, she _doesn't_ , but her faulty brain fills in the silence with the imagined sound of Peggy moaning with how good the tea is, and Jesus, Mary, Joseph, someone _help_ ), and her eyes roam comfortably around the Automat until the sight of the automatic dispensers makes her startle with a thought.

“Angie,” she beckons with a wide grin, setting her tea down to lean over the counter conspiratorially, and Angie leans in as well, confused as all heck as to what has Peggy so excited so quickly.

“What are you doing on Friday?” Peggy asks, almost giddy (well, as giddy as Angie's ever seen Peggy get), and Angie quickly thinks about her schedule.

“Nothin', I don't think,” she answers, tilting her head and thinking it over once more. “Nah, just a couple of hours here and then some time to get real comfortable with my bed. Why?”

Her answer seems to be the right one for Peggy, who looks pleased as punch as she takes a healthy stab at her cheesecake. “Friday night, we're going dancing.”

 

(It takes Angie a couple of hours to realize Peggy _might_ have meant with each other.)

 

( _Ave fuckin' Maria_ , Angie's not gonna survive.)

 

 

Friday comes almost too quickly, but with it is the realization that Angie hasn't seen hide nor hair of Peggy since the Automat, outside of the tail end of skirts skittering around a corner.

Still, Peggy's pretty good about keeping to her word, so Angie dolls up in a nice dress and the best pair of dancing shoes she owns and waits hopefully with the radio on and the window open for Peggy to come a-knockin'. She doesn't know which is the bigger part of her while she waits: the bit that hopes Peggy forgets, or the part that hopes Peggy appears in her doorway dressed to the nines and sweeps her off her feet.

(That's a lie; she knows exactly which part is bigger.)

Benny Goodman slots up through the speaker, and Angie begins to bounce along, body thrumming to the drumbeat as she stares out at the cityscape.

What the hell, she thinks with a shrug, turning the radio up a bit and settling herself in the middle of the room.

Might as well make something of the night even if Peggy forgets their plans.

It's awkward without a partner to get the same momentum, but Angie manages to dance as best she can to the tune, twirling around the room in large circles, kicking her legs out and letting her curls whip around her face without a care. She's Angie Martinelli, and by god, she's gonna _dance_.

It's all an exquisite rush, a few glorious moments where she doesn't have to think about anything except making her body match the tempo–

–until she spins straight into the arms of one Peggy Carter, who apparently had been waiting for her to finish dancing.

“Peggy!” she yelps, stumbling over her own feet to try and keep her balance and she doesn't want to think about what shade her face is.

Of all the things for Peggy to catch her doing–

“Did you start without me?” Peggy teases, and Angie just blushes further, bringing a hand up to cover her face weakly.

Peggy's head tilts back a bit and she laughs – a deep, resonating, _open_ laugh Angie's never heard from Peggy before, one that makes her face light up and the seriousness melt away – and _holy_ _ **shit**_ , it's the damn sexiest thing Angie's ever seen.

Angie can't feel much outside her heart pounding in her ears to match the throb between her legs, but Angie knows her face must be doing something really stupid, because Peggy pauses in her laughter to give Angie a worried look.

“Are you alright, darling?” Peggy asks, her eyebrows drawing together as she lays a hand on Angie's shoulder.

_Nnngghhhh_ is about all Angie manages to get out between the laugh and those eyes and those _lips_ and Peggy's voice, and her ship is sinking fast in deep water.

Peggy, however, pauses, and something changes as she looks at Angie, a spark that wasn't there before, a shift in the air that makes Peggy smirk and her eyes darken for a moment.

“Come on,” she whispers, reaching for Angie's purse without ever really letting go of Angie and leading her out of her room. “I believe, Miss Martinelli, I promised you a dance.”

 

The brisk air outside clears Angie head well enough for her to be coherent when she notices Mr. Fancy sitting in a car outside the Griffith.

“Did you bring a date, Pegs?” Angie asks with a nod of her head in his direction, hoping her voice isn't as bitter as it sounds in her head.

But Peggy only laughs, still leading Angie with an arm around her waist. “I told you, Angie, he's a colleague. And for tonight, our chauffeur.”

Angie's gonna swear from here on out that there's some sort of English mind-reader connection going on between the two of them because Mr. Fancy rounds the car to open the door just as Peggy finishes her sentence and they arrive at the street curb.

“Miss Martinelli,” he intones with a nod of his head, nodding at Peggy as well. “Miss Carter.”

“Excellent timing, Mr. Jarvis,” Peggy says, gently nudging Angie towards the backseat.

“Yeah, uh, thanks,” Angie stammers out to the man as she climbs into the car, sliding easily across the leather seats. Peggy follows closely behind her, sliding over far enough that Angie can feel the heat of Peggy's thigh where it almost brushes against her own, and Angie tries very, _very_ hard not to read anything into it. She almost succeeds.

“So, English,” Angie pipes up, awkwardly trying to break the silence as “Mr. Jarvis” takes his place in the driver's seat, “Where're you taking me?”

Peggy leans in with a grin, patting Angie's knee. “It's a surprise.”

 

 

The surprise turns out to be a hole in the wall club that Angie is pretty sure used to be a warehouse. It's somewhere on the outskirts of the city, and for a moment Angie had the worrying thought of the car getting nicked the minute they go inside, but as she and Peggy climb out of the car, along with Mr. Jarvis, the young men loitering along the edge of the cars perk up at the sight of Peggy and scatter like roaches. Angie doesn't comment on it, but she shoots Peggy a look, wondering what the hell Peggy had to do to get guys like that to step off by just showing up.

The only response she gets is a wink as they walk into the club, Mr. Jarvis following stiffly behind them.

The three of them pause near the door, allowing their eyes to adjust to the muted candlelight of the tables and the flashy brightness of the band stand and dance floor. A couple of men and their dates turn around to give them the once over, and in response Peggy tugs Mr. Jarvis down to whisper something in his ear that only Angie can see makes his face twist into an uncomfortable grimace before smoothing out as Peggy lets him go.

“Right away, dear,” he deadpans over the sound of the band, and Angie snorts out a laugh along with Peggy as he heads towards the bar.

“Jesus, what did you say to him?” Angie presses as she and Peggy beeline for a table, sitting down close enough to talk over the music.

Peggy laughs, smirking with a quirk of her eyebrows. “I told him we needed a small favor to help being left alone for the night and so could he be a dear and get his date and her sister some drinks.”

Angie busts out laughing because _god_ what a reaction now that she knows the cause. Peggy joins in her laughter as well, and they fight giggles up until Mr. Jarvis returns with drinks for the two of them. They glance at him before making the mistake of looking at each other, and they're helpless once more, taking the drinks from a slightly affronted Mr. Jarvis who sits down primly and stares at the far wall.

Angie quickly learns how to ignore that he's even there as she and Peggy start talking about the dancers already on the floor. They're mostly good, not anything great, and Angie isn't looking forward to trying to find a partner to swing with.

After a moment of quiet, Peggy slams her drink back in one go, her head snapping back before flinging forward and honing in on Angie.

(Angie decides, distractedly, that if Peggy's drink is gin and tonic like she thinks it is, then Peggy had one hell of a run in the Army with a gut like that.)

“Come on,” Peggy beckons slyly, standing up and reaching for Angie's hand.

_Lord help if she ever really asks for anything, Ang_ , she thinks to herself as she stands up alongside Peggy, _you'd roll over for her in a snap_.

Peggy draws her out to the edge of the dance floor, waving a hand elegantly at the band leader who nods in response without missing a beat.

It's then that Angie realizes Peggy's pulling more strings here than she thought.

“You know that guy?” Angie asks as they stand huddled together.

Peggy shakes her head without any real conviction. “He's an acquaintance; I helped him out of a situation and he's been polite ever since.”

“He's sweet on you!” Angie teases, drinking in the flush that blossoms on Peggy's cheeks.

“Unlikely,” Peggy refutes firmly, “He knows I throw a mean right hook.”

It's something that seems so undeniably true about Peggy that Angie busts out in laughter again, tickled that her friend isn't all straight-laced British reserve.

Peggy smiles indulgently at Angie, though Angie doesn't miss the few chuckles that slip out from Peggy, and as the band's song comes to a roaring crescendo, Peggy calmly walks the two of them to an empty but relatively quiet patch of the dance floor.

Angie flushes red, “English, I'm flattered, but you need a lead for dancing, hon, and last I checked we're both in the follow section. Not to mention we've never danced together before.”

Peggy smirks, that infuriating, all-knowing, begging-to-be-kissed-straight-off-her-face smirk, and takes both of Angie's hands in her own. “Just dance, Angie. Leave the rest to me.”

Aw hell.

Why not?

So Angie shrugs and waits for the drums to kick in on the next song before letting loose.

_Yowsa_.

Dancing has always been a special thing for Angie, something she could be good at without having anyone look down at her for it, something that could get her out from under the thumb of responsibility she feels to do well, find a nice guy, have a nice family, make some nice money, make her family proud, and she's not ashamed to admit she's used it as a litmus test for more than one guy who came 'round.

It's a simple rule – if they can match her on the dance floor, they can match her everywhere else.

Peggy blows all that out of the water.

It's not just her matching Angie, it's Peggy anticipating Angie's moves, sending her own signals that Angie picks up on without thinking, moving with her like she and Angie have been doing this since they were kids. Angie can change her direction, change her step, and there Peggy is, adapting and moving with her like they'd rehearsed it.

Shock wouldn't quite cover Angie's reaction, and elation is maybe too big a word, but Angie knows she's smiling, and she knows it will be hard to stop because where has Peggy Carter _been_ all her life?

Peggy spins them around, faster and faster in tighter circuits, and Angie springs into the aerial without thinking, flying over Peggy's shoulder and landing with a flourish. From the edge of the dance floor Angie can hear some of the men swear in surprise, and Peggy must hear them as well because she grins at Angie in an unspoken question, one that Angie answers with a grin of her own.

Give 'em something to _really_ talk about.

After that it's just a matter of bigger and better tricks. Peggy spins them faster, throws Angie higher, and Angie swings herself that much farther, pushes off that much harder to give them the show they're looking for.

At some point, one of the men throws his hat towards the two of them, most likely as a joke to throw them off beat, but Peggy plucks it out of the air nimbly and sets it on her own head, earning herself a set of howls from the crowd in appreciation.

Angie laughs at their reaction, and quickly decides what to do with the interloping hat. As Peggy lifts her up, she snatches the hat from Peggy's head, jamming it onto her own as she spins in the air and holds it in place as Peggy catches her and they swingout from each other once more. The crowd goes wild once they realize what she's done, and as soon as she's facing the direction it came from originally, she whips it off and sends it flying back to its owner as Peggy swings her around for another flip.

The band eventually blasts its way into the song's final notes, and Angie finds herself finishing off the show with a flip over Peggy, who is on the floor, and a landing that is timed perfectly with the last beat of the song.

To say the club is roaring as they finish is putting it lightly, but Angie catches Peggy's eye with a wolfish grin.

That was just the first dance of the night.

 

 

“Angie! Shhhh, you're going to get us caught!”

Peggy is hissing at her through her laughter, and Angie tries to tamp down the giggles she hasn't managed to get rid of since Peggy told that absurdly lewd joke on the car ride home and Mr. Jarvis nearly ran off the road in shock.

Angie's not sure what time it is, only that Peggy said it was “late”, but her skin buzzes with the good time they've had, and she has the childish urge to dance all night and straight into the morning.

“Aw, come on, English,” Angie whines teasingly, spinning Peggy around on wobbly feet, “Don't be a wet rag.”

Peggy sniffs at the slight jab, muttering a 'hardly' under her breath as she opens the door to her room, and Angie just laughs because god, what a dame to be in knots over.

They stumble in to 3E, Angie feeling bold and reckless enough to cling to Peggy longer than perhaps necessary as they zig-zag towards the bed. They're both stone-cold sober, Peggy's drink having long worn off with their dancing, but they're high on adrenaline and dancing and Angie is sure Miss Fry would mistake them for drunk in an instant and have a fit immediately after.

“I haven't had that much fun in _forever_ , Pegs,” Angie gushes as they flop onto the bed, wiggling back until they're sitting up against the wall next to each other.

“Neither have I,” Peggy confesses, leaning into Angie slightly. “I'm glad you had a good time, Angie; I was hoping the night would be a success.”

The warmth of Peggy's body against her own makes Angie's heart pound heavily in response, and she shoves the feeling as far down into herself as she can.

“Hey, no worries, English,” she insists brightly, slipping an arm around Peggy's waist to give her a friendly jostle and a smile, “Doing anything with a friend's better than going it alone. And what a place you managed to dig up!”

Peggy looks proud of herself at Angie's words, and her mouth tilts up in a sinfully mischievous grin as her eyes cut across to meet Angie's. Her gaze flutters over Angie's face before landing on her lips, and the angle of the light reflected through those warm brown eyes lights them up golden and other-worldly as their focus narrows.

Angie's breath rattles and seizes up, warm and fluttering in her chest as she stares, her body frozen under the spell of Peggy's lingering gaze and the overwhelming feeling that no one exists but the two of them in those few seconds.

Her fingers tighten impulsively around Peggy's waist, and she opens her mouth to apologize, to make an excuse, to stop the beating in her heart and the dryness in her mouth and the longing in her soul for this woman who is her best friend, but Peggy beats her to the punch, lifting a hand to grasp gently at Angie's chin.

“You've got…” she tries to explain, eyes focused as her thumb swipes carefully along the edge of Angie's lips. Angie is a bundle of nerves as those clever fingers trace around her mouth, choking back a broken whimper when the pad of Peggy's thumb catches slightly and tugs at her lip for a moment.

“There,” Peggy says quietly, glancing up to meet Angie's eyes, and panic is rising up in Angie as quickly as heat in a way that makes her head spin and her stomach drop.

“Peggy–” she manages to eek out.

“Jarvis called it a date,” Peggy cuts her off, focused fully on keeping Angie's gaze. “When I requested his help, he asked me, as a joke I suppose, if I went to such great lengths for all my dates.”

The air rushes out of Angie at that, and her throat tightens with terrifying hope.

“I told him it was for you,” Peggy continues with a laugh, smiling softly, “and he still insisted on calling it 'our date'.”

“Peggy, I didn't think– I mean, I didn't expect–” Angie starts to protest because the last thing she wants is one of Peggy's colleagues to look down on her for being around Angie.

Peggy lifts her finger to cover Angie's mouth then, cutting her off with a sharp look that makes Angie feel like Peggy knows what she's thinking.

“I'm usually very observant, but in this it seems I missed a rather… _obvious_ fact.”

Despair washes over Angie like the coldest wave the ocean could drag in and suddenly her mouth that seemed unusable can speak once more.

“Peggy, I'm _sorry_ , I'm _so sorry_ ,” she babbles in a rush, tears forming easily in the corners of her eyes and threatening to spill over. “I've been violets for you since I met 'ya, and I tried to ignore it but it only got worse because you're so damn _wonderful_ , and I didn't want you to know, I _swear_ I wasn't ever gonna do anything but _please_ don't leave Peggy, I promise I can stay away or I can move or anything you want but please don't leave on account of me being stupid and dirty and _wrong_ and–”

Angie's words are startled right out of her throat as Peggy's hands come up and frame her face. Peggy looks shocked, and angry, and a dozen other emotions that Angie can't quite figure out and oh god she really is crying at this point, fat tears running down her cheeks but maybe that's the punishment she deserves for all of this – being made a fool of in front of Peggy.

“Angie,” Peggy breathes, and Angie wants to flinch at the tone of Peggy's voice, the one that she's heard so many times before, the one that flays her deeper than any other.

“Angie,” Peggy repeats, face hardening into determination before collapsing into something so soft and delicate it makes Angie's chest ache to look at it.

“Oh sod it,” Peggy finally murmurs roughly before pulling Angie's face forward and kissing her.

Angie's brain short-circuits for a long moment until Peggy's fingernails trace teasingly down her neck, drawing out a shudder from Angie and melting her whole body into Peggy's kiss.

Angie _wants_ , she wants and craves and desires and hopes and everything she's felt, everything she's imagined, she tastes in Peggy's kiss, like Peggy has wanted this too.

Her hands finally manage to do something other than grasp weakly at the material around Peggy's waist, and she draws them up and around to claw Peggy closer to her. Peggy gives a startled moan at the movement, and soon enough Angie finds herself flush with Peggy, who has managed to pull herself away from Angie's lips to scrape her teeth along the underside of Angie's jaw.

Angie keens, her body throbbing with pleasure as Peggy's mouth works at her skin, and holy shit she's going to die in Peggy Carter's arms if the woman keeps it up.

Peggy rests her forehead against Angie's neck with a chuckle, and no, no, no Angie was enjoying that, before drawing her head up to stare heatedly at Angie.

“You're not the only one with a predilection for flowers,” Peggy says softly, laughing to herself for a beat before crooking a wry smile. “Well,” she corrects, “maybe one flower in particular.”

And Angie laughs, she laughs and laughs and laughs because it's such a Peggy way of saying she feels the same way too and she's so light, and happy, and _free_ in that moment that laughter feels like the most natural thing.

Well, the second most natural thing after kissing Peggy, and so Angie indulges in both, pressing laughing kisses to Peggy's face and neck while the other woman squirms and laughs and shrieks in joy.

 

 

For the first time in a long time, Angie Martinelli doesn't want for a single thing.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A few era-specific translations and general notes:
> 
> After WWII, the US government put a tax on establishments that offered dancing, so a lot of clubs switched to being mostly jazz halls where people would sit and listen to the big bands. Places to dance were harder to find after the war, and I would assume a lot of them existed in secret.
> 
> Cooking with helium - able to dance well and fast
> 
> I figured Angie Martinelli was a pretty damn Italian name so I wrote her as coming from Little Italy, and probably from a working class family and neighborhood. 
> 
> Violets kind of girl/violets for you - the secret not-so-secret flower code for "I like you" from one girl to another. It's a vague and casual point but I see Angie as more bisexual homoromantic than biromantic, thus being a violets type of girl but also with past boyfriends.
> 
> No one is wondering this but I'll tell you anyway 'Ave Maria' is not just a song it also happens to be the beginning of 'Hail Mary' in Italian. I'm a cheeky little asshole.
> 
> The move with the hat goes wholly to Max Pitruzella and Annie Trudeau in their 2008 ILHC Showcase which you can find on YouTube and watch because I promise words can't do that move justice.


End file.
